


The Kitsune Mask

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: Homestuck
Genre: College AU, M/M, Prostitution, non-smutty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jake English turns 21, his friends grace him with an odd (and unsolicited) gift: Five nights with an expensive prostitute at a fancy downtown club, so he can finally have his "sexual debut".</p><p>But the worker behind the Kitsune mask ends up being much, much more than Jake expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 1st

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been SO OVERDUE. I've been literally working on it for YEARS, and some stuff in it (like the fact that it was a self-indulgent porn/fluff fic omg) has changed, but I think it was for the better :) Thank you so much for [Kyan](http://stealthbaguette.tumblr.com/) for beta'ing this fic for me!!! ; v ; you're awesome!!! <3
> 
>  
> 
> \-----

Being twenty-one was not as everyone made it to be, you soon realized.

You woke up in the cold morning of yet another birthday feeling tired and comfortable in your nice little nest of blankets, with little to no intention of getting up; being the birthday of your deary older sister you assume she also won’t rise anytime soon either.

When the doorbell rings you manage to drag yourself off of the bed somehow – after a minute or two – and crawl to the hallway, only to find a sluggish Jade also on her merry way to the door. She smiles weakly and you wave at her, grinning weakly.

“Happy birthday, dear sister.”

“Happy birthday to you too, Jake.” She says through a yawn, dragging her feet on the carpet.

You open the front door together, not surprised in the slightest when your closest friends burst through it, cheering and tackling you both down.

Sleepy as you might be you already know it’s going to be a good birthday.

 

\--

 

“Now please just wait a second!” you protest, nearly being dragged across the street by your supposed friends. “I don’t think this is appropriate behavior towards the birthday boy!”

“We’re taking Jade as well and we don’t hear her complaining!” Nepeta points out, and you huff, Jade giggling somewhere behind you.

“That is not-! I don’t--! Oh, dear lord, will you please--!!”

Your voice gets cut down short as they give you a very final push and you tumble through the red curtains that lead to the entrance hall. The receptionist, a young lady wearing a Phantom of the Opera mask, looks up from the computer, smiling as soon as she spots you and your friends walking in.

“Ah, you must be mister English. We have been expecting you.” She says, walking around her work table and offering her hand. You take it, only if not to be rude, and wonder briefly for how long your traitorous friends planned this. She shakes it firmly, making your knuckles pop. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. You may call me Rudy.”

“Ah, Rudy, em… I believe there might be a mistake here?” you stumble out, but she ‘tsk’s at you, waving a hand in the air.

“Nonsense, English!” Aradia cheers, clasping one of your shoulders. “He’d like to see the ladies when they’re ready, Rudy.”

“Yes, of course, my dear.” She tells her, turning your attention back at you. Her eyes crinkle slightly when she smiles; you’re still holding her hand. “This way, please, if you will.”

Okay, so here is the thing that apparently is happening.

You’re in a whore house.

There must be better, more sensitive ways to describe the place you’re in, but right now that’s the only fitting description that comes to mind. You’re in a whore house you repeat out loud in your head, the thought not really making you feel less nervous or jittery. You look around, eyeing the room you’re in, and you wonder… Why?!

Just an hour ago you were skyping with your lovely grandpa and your friends were fixing up your place after completely wrecking it with your birthday party. After you and Jade wrapped it up, they dragged you out, Jane and everyone else saying that they had a gift for you.

But good lord in heaven, this place just looks too expensive for your friends’ budget.

You’re all now in a dimly lit room found behind the double doors Miss Rudy just unlocked before telling you all to go in. It’s a fancy bar, and by the looks of the stage before you, it’s a fancy stripper bar. Its floor and the walls behind and around it are covered in a velvety red fabric and there are big, theatrical-like curtains directly behind it. You were asked to sit on one of the empty tables before said stage, and all your friends are standing around you, excited and giddy, trying to convince you about this whole ordeal since you’re still mildly unsure about it all.

You don’t know if this is a good idea.

Hell, you don’t even know if you want this.

Your mind races back to all the girls you’ve ever dated – not many, that’s for sure – and you wonder if telling your friends you’re a virgin was the right thing to do. It’s not like the thought of sex never occurred to you, or the want or curiosity... but you were never attached enough to any of your partners to, well, engage in intercourse with them. You always felt like something as personal as sex is meant to be shared only between two people in love.

Now, at the prime of your life, you struggle to keep believing in that. You’re not sure if you still do, actually. Anything regarding intimacy and physical pleasure gets a little... twisted after you’re over eighteen and enrolled in college, a place filled to the brim with teenagers and young adults exhaling a rebellious and free spirit, their hormones wild, relentless and untamable as possible.

But they’re right, aren’t they? They’re right, they’re absolutely right, you’re twenty-one for Pete’s sake, what are you waiting for? What have you got to lose? You must live your life, enjoy every second of it, take the bull by its horns while you’re still young and full of energy, and definitely not sit around merely waiting for pleasing experiences to fall into your lap. And if the true love of your life does eventually show up you’re positive they won’t mind the fact that they won’t be your first one. That is, if they really are the right person for you.

“Dang it, you guys, blast it all.” You murmur, sighing. “Fine. What does this entail?”

“I’ll call out the girls, and you’ll pick one of them.” The woman explains, and your friends shuffle restlessly around you. You almost huff. Almost. “She will be your pick throughout five weeks, and you may not change your pick. You mistreat them, and you’ll be in deep trouble. Are we clear, mister English?”

You gulp, just hoping you won’t have a heart attack anytime soon, because golly, your heart is hammering away in your chest. A curt nod is all it takes for her to be satisfied, and to grin widely back at you all again.

“Well then!” she exclaims. “If you’ll excuse me…”

She disappears behind the curtains and immediately you turn around, glaring at your friends.

“You guys!!” you yell, but everyone snickers.

“Honestly, don’t be so fussy, English. This is no big deal” Eridan sneers, crossing his arms.

“Also, she can probably listen to you, dude.” John adds, and Dave waves his head.

“Yeah, keep your cool, bro.”

“My cool?! My fucking cool?! Don’t you dare tell me to keep my cool in this critical situation, Strider!!!”

“If I may say,” Equius raises a finger, looking mildly stiff. “I was against this idea all along.”

“But you still helped out, silly!” Nepeta purrs, and you look back at the tall man, making him flinch.

“Well… what are friends for?” he tries, but when you don’t budge he turns to Karkat, droplets of sweat already beading on his forehead. “I need assistance.”

“Your pickle, not mine.”

“I wasn’t very sure about this either.” Jane says. She seems awfully shy and out of place, not unlike you. “But I guess it’d be a fun experience? Maybe? I don’t know.”

Precisely.

YOU DON’T KNOW EITHER.

You would’ve said it out loud, too, but the curtains moving again bring your attention back to the stage before you.

The receptionist steps back out with five young ladies at her heels, walking in a straight line. They move to the edge of the stage and kneel, all eyes on you.

You’re awestruck.

They’re very young, thirty at most, and are all dressed up in themed costumes. The first girl wears a Chinese dress with a red and white dragon mask and the second has curly red hair in a colorful carnival mask. The third is a gorgeous, curvy and dark skinned girl with an African mask and next to her is a brunette wearing a colorful skull mask. They’re stupendously gorgeous, each in a different and unique way, and though you eye them all with adoration and nervousness, but your awe simmers as soon as you notice the fifth girl.

She catches your eye in a way that none of the others do.

She’s wearing a white fox mask with orange ornaments, and the rigid plastic covers her face all the way down to her chin. The fabric of the kimono doesn’t envelop her shoulders like it should, hanging from them instead, and the red sash tied around her middle seems almost too tight on her lithe frame.

The fox girl looks stiff, but not uncomfortably so; she simply seems to be holding herself up with poise and self-discipline. The red-head looks a lot more relaxed, back curved deliberately to pop out her perky breasts, lips curled into a devious smile like she knows precisely how she’ll have her way with you. Almost as soon as you look away the brunette wiggles her fingers, coyly pursing her lips and batting her long eyelashes at you (good god there goes your heart rate). The bare shoulders of the dark skinned girl, smooth and immaculate, looks silky and soft to the touch, much like the fair thighs of the dragon girl, which look plump without seeming too out of place with the rest of her thin body, both almost the complete opposite of the bony and freckled skin of the fox girl. The brunette’s fingers, nails shiny and glossy with colorful patterns, twitch fretfully over her lap, as opposed to the fox’s hands, that rest gently over the perfectly smooth fabric of her kimono, fingers straight and meticulously aligned.

In a final scrutiny, you realize how all the other girls seem eager to please, while the fifth girl seems ready to serve. At first glance, said difference is unnoticeable, but you know you felt it the moment she walked through those doors.

And that’s why you’re indubitably spellbound by her.

“I want...” you start nervously, and everyone shifts to listen closely to your decision. Egads! How nerve-wrecking! Your hands are positively shaking, and you rub your sweaty palm on your jeans as subtly as possible. Your breath catches uncomfortably in the back of your throat when the fox girl shifts, a movement so subtle no one else seemed to take note of, your fists balling up with pent up nervousness and pulling at the fabric clinging uncomfortably to your legs.

You forget for a moment why exactly you are here for, eyes fixated on the white mask and its black, endless eyes as your stupid little heart thrums desperately inside your chest.

You don’t know why that is, but you know you want her. Need, even. It’s an outlandish and disconcerting feeling, and it’s also the first time you’ve ever felt this anxious and thrilled about anything in your entire life.

“Jake?” Jade asks behind you, poking your neck to catch your attention, and you jump in your cushy seat a little, babbling nervously.

“I, uh...” you try again, your bottom lip the poor victim of your abiding uneasiness. “I want the, the uh... m-maybe the fifth girl? The one in the kimono?”

“Excellent choice.” Rudy says. The fox girl slowly bows down, forehead nearly touching the wooden stage, and the other four ladies get up from their spots, gracefully marching back to where they originally came from as if nothing unusual took place. The dazzling moment of amazement is completely and utterly gone now that it’s starting to dawn on you that you’re expected to, oh heavens above, have sex with her, freaking hell. “I believe your friends will take care of the paperwork for you, am I right?” the receptionist asks, and once everybody nods, she steps down the stage. “Very well. Mister English?”

Rudy opens a door on the wall to your right; it is completely covered in the red velvet, even the handle, so you didn’t even notice it existed until this very moment. “Y-yes?” you stutter, your nerves completely bazonkers at this point. You can even tell she’s holding herself back to not giggle. She probably doesn’t have to deal with awkward lads like you on a daily basis.

“This way, please.”

She walks through the door, and you hurriedly get up from your chair to follow her, barely even registering the cheers coming from your friends. You look back one last time, feeling like Alice about to go down the rabbit hole, and you see that they’re smiling, whooping, even whistling. You fail to decide if the scene is joyfully amusing or completely preposterous.

You eye the fox girl one last time as well, just for the heck of it, and see that she has risen, her back now perfectly straight once again and her blank, emotionless mask staring right at you, unnervingly empty.

You gulp dryly and trot towards the woman still marching down the corridor, closing the door softly behind you.

The corridor is well illuminated, and multiple doors can be found on either side, each one adorned with a small mask that seems to resemble the ones you saw on the girls up on the stage just now. A couple of them you don’t recognize; you suppose they must be “booked” by someone else.

Ugh. The impersonality of the whole shebang makes you cringe. You cannot express just how much this whole thing unsettles you and how much you’d rather be elsewhere right now, but for some odd reason you just keep walking, and somehow you know you won’t to go anywhere else tonight.

On the farthest door down the hall you finally see the fox’s mask.

“Now, mister English,” the woman turns to you, and you gulp, looking at her straight in the eye to show confidence, none of which you have right now. “I will hand you the key to the Kitsune’s room. Before you leave the building, you will hand it over to the person at reception. Next Saturday you shall come around this same time and ask for the key once again. You have a total of fifteen hours maximum to spend with them, and I hope you remember all the warnings I gave you throughout the night. Do you have any questions?”

You shake your head, shoulders stiff, and she giggles.

“Very well.”

For lack of anything better to do, you watch as she inserts the key, twists the knob, and steps aside.

“Welcome to your private piece of heaven, mister English.”

You jaw drops slightly as you eye the room behind her, dimly lit and covered in Japanese paper walls. To the right you see a flower vase with fresh cherry blossoms twigs and a tapestry clinging to the wall. Across from the entrance is a short table with a thick blanket around it, a paper lamp precisely above it, its ethereal light casting soft shadows across the bedroom.

On the left corner, a big Japanese futon lays.

“To the left you’ll find the facilities. You may use everything at your discretion. Ah, and yes, this is very important, mister English.” You turn to her, momentarily realizing you’ve been staring in awe, but she’s still all smiles and sweet words. How rude of you, you really ought to— “Your chosen maiden - He’s male."

You blink once. Twice.

“What?”

“The worker you chose, the one wearing the white and orange fox mask. He’s not a woman, he’s a young man.”

...oh.

Uh.

Oh?!?!

“I didn’t say anything because I was afraid you’d feel obligated to change your pick to keep up appearances in front of your acquaintances, even if you didn’t want to. Now that you know though, you may choose one of the other four maidens if you wish, and I will bring her for you instead. If not, rest assured your secret is safe with me.”

Jesus on a milk cracker, holy crap???

You wonder for how long you have to hold your breath before managing to pass out. Mustn’t be long, you figure, but you know it’d be awfully boorish of you to simply collapse before such a polite maiden.

Instead, you think.

Or rather, you attempt to think because unfortunately the cogs in your noggin have rusted and come to a full halt. It’s like your brain turned to mush, and as if you are trying to put it back together with a freaking strainer.

“I, w-well...” you stammer, and the woman waits, patiently empathic. It only serves to make you even more nervous. “I um... suppose... it’s alright?” and not even a second after you’ve said it you actually grasp that holy fucking mackerel did you just fucking agree to have sexual intercourse with a bloke?? Is that a thing you just did???  He is gorgeous, though, that much is for certain, a part of you argues, while the other part screams what?!? What are we talking about oh my dear lord!! But. Well. Does it really matter that he’s a guy? Will it change things? Will it not? You have never been with a man after all; is it different, bad, just as good, even better? Are you willing to go for it still? Give it a try? Wow wait a second does this means you are actually okay with kissing another man?? And maybe more???

You honestly don’t know anything anymore, blast it all. This is all awfully conflicting and you just wish things could be simpler; is that asking too much?

Probably, the weird voice in your head says. You sigh in defeat, the tips of your ears burning with embarrassment.

“Very well.” She nods, and you’re so jittery and taken aback with your own slip (was it really a slip though? Oh goodness you can’t afford to think about this right now shit) that you can’t find any voice in you to deny or agree to anything, face and neck and even shoulders now probably red beneath your tanned skin, head throbbing with the beginning of a mild headache from all the thinking and wondering that you’re doing in such a small fraction of a second. She ignores you though, probably used to the likes of you in her humble business; instead, she pulls the small key from the door and takes your hand in hers, placing the cool metal exactly in the middle of your palm.

“Your companion will arrive soon. I strongly advise you to not lose this key. You may lock the door if you wish; he will make sure to knock before entering.”

“Right. Right.” You nod, coughing awkwardly and shoving the key in your pocket.

“You’ve made a wonderful choice.” And she smiles, her red lips so sweet and kind you feel part of your nervousness melting away. “We hope you enjoy your stay, Mister English.”

And with that, she walks away down the corridor you two came from, closing the door behind her and leaving you on your own.

Suddenly it’s like there’s a lump of dry coal on your throat, and you’re feeling nervous, more than ever before in your life.

You sigh, feeling defeated, head heavy and thoughts loud and unnerving. It’s better not to think anymore, at least not now that there’s no immediate way out of this mess, you decide. Shoes and socks left behind by the front door, you trot towards the bathroom, merely peeking inside and, consequently, almost falling on your arse with shock.

“Good gravy...!!!” you mutter, widening your eyes at the room, so unlike the plain traditional one you left behind. The scrubbed tiles seem to glisten, and the round stone tub is marvelously inviting, almost as if it’s chanting your name. You turn its silver tap curiously, realizing with wide eyes that the water flows down gracefully from a gap in the ceiling. To its right you notice a few glass shelves stacked with knick knackeries of all kinds and shapes, complete with a pile of fluffy towels and robes neatly folded and ready to use. To its left you see a gorgeous shower behind a glass door, a toilet a few steps before it and a sink right behind you, leaning against the paper wall that divides the cold tiles from the weird, straw-like floor of the room.

You make your way to the stall door, sliding it open, and you look at the small stone stool on the back of the shower.

Suddenly, all the stress you just went through hits you like a brick wall, and you feel exhausted.

A hot shower never felt more inviting.

The showerhead above is wide, and the water engulfs you, warm and soothing. You sigh. You needed this, you realize. You sit down, rest your head against the wall where the water doesn’t hit you, close your eyes and try not to think.

It seems like it is going to be a very long night and a very memorable birthday.

 

\---

 

When you leave the shower and wrap yourself up in one of the bathrobes, the bathroom is steamy and pleasantly warm, and you feel like a huge weight was just lifted off your shoulders. You step back into the bedroom and stop: it dawns on you that you are, clearly, still alone.

Before you can process that thought any further, a few light taps are heard outside your door, and you widen your eyes, suddenly realizing your slip.

Shit…! You probably didn’t hear them from inside the shower, especially since you feel like you might have drifted off a little. What a rude start, English, for Pete’s sake, how could you have forgotten about your guest?

You hurriedly make your way to the entrance, tightening the knot at your waist, and open the door in one swift movement. Behind it, indeed, is the fox-masked lad, hands before his body and face as unreadable as before. You would have slapped yourself in the face if you could. As it is however, you have one hand firmly rooted on the doorknob, grounding you in this bizarre reality, and the other hand firmly rooted on your towel, preventing any premature peepshows.

“Oh dear goodness, I am so sorry about this, I didn’t even… I thought… I got, uh… distracted? Why didn’t you…um.” The man stays silent and unmoving, and you tense up, awkwardly realizing that you never really invited him in. You step away and he immediately walks inside, as silent as a breeze. “Yeah, uh. Nevermind. Sorry for not opening the door earlier.”

He shrugs, making a beeline for the table, and you shiver, biting your lip as you watch him bend down and kneel. You close the door, not wanting to make a fuss, and sit exactly across from him, crossing your legs beneath the blanket.

“Oh!” you exclaim, fixing the soft fabric over your knees. Much to your surprise, the space beneath the table is crispy hot, and you wiggle your toes happily. “This is positively gracious! I think I’ve heard of these tables! They’re electric, right?”

The man in the mask nods, its blank eyes still looking straight at you. It’s... unnerving. Why won’t he say something, for pete’s sake?

“Uh… soooo…” you mutter shyly, looking away, but he doesn’t budge. “Are you, like, not allowed to talk or something of the sort?”

There is a long pause, the room so painfully quiet you can hear the shower’s remaining drips falling against the wet floor.

“I am only allowed to talk if you wish me to do so.” He answers at last, his voice deep, low, and emotionless. You raise an eyebrow.

“Well, you’re certainly allowed to talk! Why wouldn’t you be?”

“I am made to appear... feminine.” He explains after a pause, head tilting to the side. “Most people think that a male voice ruins the whole experience.”

“Oh. Well, I assure you it won’t be a problem. I actually would feel a lot more awkward if you were silent the entire time. Wouldn’t you?”

“What I think, want, or feel isn’t at question here.” He says coldly, rising to his feet in such graceful and measured motions it’s as if he’s floating instead of moving. His kimono slides over his bare thighs all the way to the floor, the smooth silk flowing down over his figure like water, and you look up, eyeing him carefully as he walks around the table and kneels next to you instead. “I will do whatever you want, and however you want me to.”

You gulp dryly, suddenly feeling nervous and awkward. “B-by jolly!” You stammer, “It’s like the saying, then, I say jump and you say how high? Hahaha. Uh. I’m not even sure that’s indeed a saying.”

He keeps looking at you, silently, his head moving just a tiny inch and his warm body almost uncomfortably close to yours. You feel your cheeks flushing a deep red.

“So...” he says, slowly and softly, the voice muffled and almost eerie behind his porcelain mask, and a freckled hand moves to rest over your clenched one, right atop your thigh. He doesn’t squeeze, barely even bends his fingers; they merely slide along your knuckles in a gentle suggestion to relax your joints, so you do, exhaling a breath you hadn’t even noticed you were holding as you release your robe and turn your palm and callused fingers up. Gently, his perfectly manicured nails slide down your palm, tickling and enticing your skin, until they brush against the sensitive skin of your wrist, slowly tracing a blue vein, idly feeling your thrumming pulse as it speeds up uncontrollably.

“How high would you like me to jump, then?”

You need a kerchief. Badly.

In a moment you see how he transforms, going from poised and refined to lustful and submissive. It caught you completely unprepared, and you open and close your mouth several times before managing to put together something actually discernible besides the mortifying little squeaks you’re embarrassed to admit making. “Holy bejesus, I uh. Well, I was actually hoping we could, um... talk beforehand? Maybe?”

His hand freezes, ceasing the pleasant scritches, and you bring your hands to the collar of your robe, pretending to adjust it just so you have something to do with them as to avoid any further intimacy, no matter how little. Or pleasant. “Talk.” He echoes, and you nod.

“Yes, well, talk! You know... get to know each other a little before, uh... yes. Talk. For a bit.”

“You do know that ‘getting to know each other’ completely ruins the whole anonymity factor of this house, right?” he says, the slight change of tone giving away the fact that he’s meticulously analyzing you as if you’re a very intriguing if dumb puzzle. And you most certainly are exactly that right now, that’s for sure.

“Oh, yes, I suppose that is correct, haha... haaa...”

You shake your head, scolding yourself and looking away for a moment, eyeing the futon with a heavy feeling in your gut. If only you had something else to do with your mouth instead of blabbering out nonsense, or worse, even more stupidities…! You completely and utterly forgot why you’re here and who he is for a second - or rather; who the two of you are: a client and his chosen date, a patron and his escort, and why the mask is in his face in the first place. It’s not merely for the sake of fashion or beauty, no; it’s for the sake of anonymity, for both of you. You’re not even sure you’ll ever know his name, and the thought unsettles you deeply.

He turns away from you and towards the table, fixing the blanket and the silky kimono over his thighs, and you take the moment to observe him, how his moves are almost precisely calculated. You could never tell he’s a male either, if you weren't previously told. The chap looks so much like a gal! Even his wrists and collarbone look rather delicate, like it could shatter at the slightest touch.

Suddenly a thought occurs to you.

“Hey, mate? I was wondering... How should I refer to you?”

“However you want.” he replies, gaze still fixed on his lap, and you frown.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all! I mean, gender wise. How would you like me to refer to you as?”

There’s a slight flinch on his shoulders, where his muscles seem to lock up, and you think you must’ve shocked him somehow. Has no one ever bothered to ask?

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, I mean... you look very feminine! And I don’t mean it in a bad way, I think you’re jolly attractive! But I do know that there are people that, despite their actual sex, prefer to be referred to as something else, to match their identity. Uh. I... hope that was ok to ask?”

“You’re asking me if I’m genderfluid or transgender.” He says. It’s not a question, merely a statement, given his intonation.

“Well, of course! I know that transgender and genderfluid folks are highly offended and extremely uncomfortable when people refer to them as their wrong pronoun, and that is absolutely the last thing I would ever want to do with a lad like you. Lady. Whichever. What I mean is—“

“Master English.” He whispers, and only now you realize that the hold to his outfit has become tight, the knuckles of his hands white. You gape at him, slightly confused. “Why are you doing this?”

“Well, first of all, please, do call me ‘Jake’. I am nobody’s master, and I’d like it to remain that way. Second of all, I’m just... worried about your state of spirit? I don’t want to—“

“Why?” He asks, voice wavering a little, and you turn your brows upright in worry.

“Why not? I want to treat you the same way I treat everyone I know. Just because you have an uncommon job or because we just met absolutely does not mean I should treat you any different. Don’t you agree?”

And after that he falls silent.

Painfully so.

You wonder if it was a good decision on your part to question his identity, but golly, you wouldn't feel right not asking, y'know? Anyhoo there isn’t much you can do about it now. He shifts beside you, suddenly seeming uncomfortable, and the hands once holding the silk relax and spread over his thighs. You wonder what he is thinking... or what he thinks of you, more specifically. Restless and nervous, you move to change the position of your legs, the blanket falling from your lap as you do so, and when you look he’s reaching towards you, ready to fix it himself, but you promptly dismiss him, telling him it’s alright, you can certainly do this on your own, much appreciated. You catch the way he only slightly pulls back his arms when you lift the blanket and smooth it over your thighs, as if at the ready to take it from you in case you change your mind or something ludicrous like that. How shyly he curls his fingers midair as you place your hands atop your own lap, as if he feels bad for allowing you to do this on your own when serving you is clearly his role here. How he pulls his arms back towards his chest and hangs his head a little, most likely scolding himself for remaining silent instead of further insisting to take care of the task at hand.

His shoulders droop and he looks away, and you observe as he does so merely from the corner of your eye, presuming he’d rather not be studied like a zoo creature while he comes up with a proper answer. Or something. Honestly you’re not so sure he’s merely pondering your question anymore, but you brush the thought away and wait patiently for him to say something.

“You’re a strange fellow, Mister Jake.” He suddenly whispers, making you jump and look back at him. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

You laugh softly, waving your head. “Alas, people have labeled me as peculiar and oddish quite a few times.”

He visibly relaxes, back and arms loosening up a little as he chuckles at your reply. It’s a pity; you wish you could see his expression.

“You can use male pronouns, by the way. I may look and try to act feminine, but I’m still a man, thank you very much.”

“Well, right-o!” you exclaim, genuinely happy that you were able to settle this matter before you made a fool of yourself – though you suppose it’s kind of way too late for that by now. Whoops? “Would it be too straight forward of me to inquire you about your age as well, my good chump?”

“Yes, yes it would.” He says, his voice clearly a bit more cheerful, but you just laugh and brush it off, waving a hand in the air.

“Ah, well, I tried! If it’s any consolation, here: I’m twenty-one. Just turned today, actually!”

“Happy birthday.” He finally looks at you again, and you thank him with genuine appreciation, grinning widely. But then he inquires, “Am I perhaps your birthday gift?”, and your smile falters. “I mean it in the most non-degrading way possible, believe me.”

“I know you do, but... when you say it like that, it’s... I’m still very uncomfortable with all this, if that wasn’t blatantly obvious by now.” And you rub the back of your neck awkwardly. He nods, and you continue. “My friends decided it would be a good birthday gift, since I’ve never... you know.”

Even with the mask on you can almost feel him frown, confused, and he tilts his head to the side like a curious little fox. “You mean... you’ve never had sex before?” “Yes, that’s precisely it. And that’s the main reason why I’m still not so sure about... all this.” You wave your arm in a circle, indicating the room. “It’s not you though!” You reassure him, putting your hands up. “I think you’re positively dazzling, and up until now, an outstanding fellow! It’s just that I… I really don’t know.” You shrug, placing your arms over the table and hunching a bit. “I used to think about making love when I was younger, but now that I’m twenty one, single and not really attracted to anybody I know... I wonder if my morals are all that valid anymore. I wonder if my friends are right and I should just... just get this over with already.”

“Sounds complicated.” He whispers, and you let out a heavy sigh.

“It is, I guess. I mean, it’s just a trivial problem compared to other stuff, but... it’s still driving me up the walls.”

“Well, then the real question is: do you want to do it?”

“That’s just it! I don’t know!” you throw your arms up in the air, plopping them back down over the table with a loud thud. “I don’t know what I want, frankly. Not anymore, at least. I mean, it shouldn’t be a big deal, right? And it’s not! It’s not and I don’t know why I’m making it such a big deal, because—“

And whoa there’s a hand on your cheek.

“Dude. Relax. Calm down. We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

“We... don’t?” you ask, mentally smacking yourself for sounding so dumbstruck.

“Of course we don’t. You’re pulling the strings here, remember? I’ll do anything you want, and not doing anything you don’t want to do is part of the package. So stop freaking out, I don’t want to have to CPR you.”

“Now that’s blowing things out of proportion! I wasn’t that worked up!”

“I know.” And this time he does laugh a little, papping your face twice before pulling back and placing both hands on the floor behind him, leaning back against them. “I was just messing with you. You’re a funny guy.”

It takes you a few stunned seconds, but you end up smiling at him.

You faintly wonder if he’s smiling back.

You surely hope he is.


	2. December 8th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, [Kyan](http://stealthbaguette.tumblr.com/) you're awesome ; w ; thank you for all your help!!! I couldn't have finished this without you omg
> 
> Without further delays, on to the fic!
> 
> \----

In the end, your birthday ended up not being all that bad after all.

You wake up in the morning on the futon that adorns the room you’re in, alone and feeling well rested. When you look to the side you see the Kitsune Key over a little note, written with an orange, glittery pen.

**“I had fun last night. You’re a very intriguing man, mister English, and I hope you’ll join me again next week.**

**Sincerely,**

**The Kitsune.”**

You smile, fondly recalling how the two of you laughed and discussed your favorite movies all night long until you were so tired you decided to move to the futon, laying on your sides at a respectful distance. You must’ve conked out somewhere along the evening.

You also can’t remember having covered yourself with a blanket, despite having a very fluffy one covering you up to your shoulders, and you smile, knowing that your Kitsune friend must’ve  
fetched it after you were out cold.

After folding the sheets and changing back into your outfit, you walk out of the room, locking the door behind you.

A different receptionist from the day before asks you for the key back, but assures you she’ll give it back to you and only you on the 8th as soon as you return.

You walk home with a light heart and a giddy smile on your lips.

\--

For once in your life time seems to drag itself out painfully. You tell yourself it’s because you just can’t wait for the holidays, but deep down you know it’s because you want Saturday to come as soon as possible.

You pedal a bit more furiously when you come to that conclusion, face warm and lips twisted up in an awkward grimace.

Some people stare as you bike past them, but you don’t give them the time of the day.

The Kitsune man, though.

You’d give him all the time you own.

“He’s positively fascinating.” You tell them Monday afternoon, sitting at one of the campus' picnic table during a study session that had yet to begin, since the lot of them refused to open any books before you gave in to their insistent pestering about Saturday.

" _He_?" Nepeta asks curiously, and you blush. Egads, they don't know, do they?? Oh lord almighty. "Jake English, I do believe you forgot to tell us something!"

"Malarkey, ah well, um… he’s a lad. The person wearing the kimono wasn't a gal, he was actually a lad."

"...Really?" Eridan asks, and you nod, everyone a bit wide-eyed and, quite frankly, somewhat shocked. You're usually so adamant about your beautiful (and sometimes blue) ladies, no one's ever considered you'd be interested in a man before, not even you! But much to your relief, no one else says anything on the matter - besides Equius, who, per usual, starts to sweat profusely.

"Ah, oh dear, I need my towel, do excuse me." He mumbles, fumbling with his backpack. Jade snorts quietly as you blush.

“Hold on, no one's asking the right questions here!" John says, raising his arms and glaring at you accusingly. " _Fascinating_? Don’t get me wrong, Jake, but that’s not usually the word people use to describe the person who they popped their cherry with."

“Oh, buggers, I suppose it’s only fair...” you whisper, twisting your hands over each other nervously, and Nepeta leans onto the table at your direction, eyes glinting with curiosity.

“Did you not... copulate?” Equius asks, and you bite your lip, looking down at your legs. The agape look upon your comrades' faces burn in your mind. Jade shouts “ _yessss!!!_ ” somewhere beside you.

“Pay up, trooper!” she exclaims, offering her palm up to John, who grunts and fishes a ten-dollar bill out of his back pocket, frowning furiously. You stare in shock while Eridan rolls his eyes before adjusting his reading glasses and going back to his books.

“Hold on... _you two had a bet going?!_ ” you exclaim, a little insulted and humiliated, but Jade bumps your shoulders and giggles softly from her seat next to you, stuffing the money in her pencil case.

"Think of it as a compliment!" she tells you quite happily, and John huffs as he starts fishing out notebooks from his own bag and slamming them down onto the table, face red and scrunched up in more than obvious annoyance. "I knew you'd be a gentleman like always and wouldn't sleep with that girl on the first night. Well, _boy_. Anyway, that's why we agreed on five nights, after all!"

You think about it as she and John begin arguing over the details of their little bet. They agreed on five nights because they imagined you’d like to know your date first...? It actually sounds very plausible, and honestly, it makes you breathe a tad more easily.

You remember the Kitsune’s words from Saturday, about how you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, and for some reason you’re looking even more forward to next weekend.

\--------------------

Saturday comes fairly quickly, and you wake up much too early because of your anxiousness. Jade comes to your room at about nine, eyes widening when she sees you already up and about, lying on the floor doing push-ups. You smile at her and wink.

"Good morning, milady! What a fine morning this is, eh?! Capital, if I might add!”

“Jake, what are you doing up so early?” She smiles, crossing her arms. “It’s Saturday, we don’t have classes or anything...”

“Yes, yes, I know, but I decided to rise with the birds today!” You exclaim excitedly. “Say, you think he must awake by now as well? I do peg him as an early riser, now that I think about it. I mean, he did give me this, this _vibe_ of a healthy kind of lad, you know? Always prepared to seize the day by its horns!”

She gapes at you before shaking her head and turning around. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re head over heels for him!” She sing-songs, _amused_ , and you guffaw.

You are _not_...! _How can she_...?! Oh for frigs flipping sake, what a preposterous insinuation! You’ve only talked to him _once_! Sure, you did enjoy his company very much, and yes, he is impossibly _charming_ so you can see how one might fall for him so easily, but that’s definitely not your situation, _thankyouverymuch_!

You shrug her comment off and stretch out to finish your daily routine, touching your shins with your forehead with practiced ease, huffing again.

 _In love_. As if!

Thankfully, Jade drops the subject completely, talking about her plans for the weekend and how her studies are going so far instead, blissfully taking your mind off of... _things_. But nothing lasts forever, for better or worse, and when the evening starts to roll in you force yourself to prep up and leave the house, your heart beating faster the closer you are to your scheduled hour. Sure, the Kitsune did say you have no obligations with him during your “meetings”, but you just know your friends are going to prod you about it once again, since, well, that’s why they paid so much money on your behalf, is it not? It’s obviously not so you could have a chat with the pal! It makes you feel very uneasy, like you’re going to disappoint them. You love your friends very much, you do, but deep down you wish you could’ve refused the gift.

But then again, if you had done so, you’d never have met the Kitsune.

You feel the implications of this fleeting thought more than you actually notice them, and in a moment it’s gone, slipping away from you like smoke between your fingers.

You arrive at the club before you know it, what with your head far away with your troubled thoughts, but you force yourself shake them off as you smile at the receptionist behind the desk.

“Welcome again, Jake English. Your companion is already waiting for you in your room.” She says, all sweet smiles and soothing voice, and suddenly you’re feeling nervous again. _Fuck_.

“Ah, thank you, ma’am.” You mutter, taking the key she’s handing you and making your way down the familiar path after assuring her she needn’t bother with you.

When you push the door open you immediately spot him, sitting on the other side of the table ( _kotatsu, Jake, it’s a kotatsu, not a table_ , he’d reminded you the previous week) and sipping at his tea with his mask partially up; he swiftly pulls it back in place almost as soon as you spot him, making so that all you see is a hint of a pale, freckled chin.

Well, darn it.

“Jake.” He says once the mask’s eyes are properly lined with his own. You lock the door and remove your boots, leaving them next to his wooden slippers. “Nice to see you again.”

“Ah, yes, sorry for the delay! I hope I didn’t make you wait for longer than is acceptable, do forgive me, mate.”

“No worries.” He says, getting up to help you with your coat. You thank him, mildly embarrassed. “You're not actually late, I just came earlier to set things up around here. And I brought you something.”

“Oh? A gift?” You ask, turning around as he walks to the futon.

“Not exactly.” He kneels down, taking a folded pile of clothing in his hands. You watch as he sets the smaller piece of clothing over the ta— _kotatsu_ , and picks up the bigger one, unfolding it.

It resembles a kimono, somehow, only wider and less flower-y. It’s dark green decorated with tree leaves.

And it’s _beautiful_.

“A little something I thought you should wear while you’re here with me, to make the whole scenario a little more... believable. It’s called a yukata. We’re all about theatrics here in the Velvet Door, as you must’ve noticed by now. What do you think?”

“It’s... marvelous! What a fantastic garment!” you exclaim, touching the soft silk with the tip of your fingers and smiling up at him. “I appreciate it! I think it’s a _ripsnorting_ idea!”

“Alright then, undress.”

You widen your eyes and tense up.

Good heavens, how can he be so... _straight forward?!_

“I-I-I beg your pardon?” You stutter, completely chill, not freaked out whatsoever, nope!

“You won’t be able to put this on properly by yourself, not even if you tried." The Kitsune explains, shaking the outfit in the air as if to make his point. “Now chop chop, pants off, we ain’t got all night.”

You hesitate – that was absolutely disconcerting! He’s really got no shame, has he?

Quickly he realizes how uncomfortable you are and nods. “Don’t worry, I’ll turn around. See?” And he does, still holding the clothing by its shoulders. “Just strip down to your boxers, no need to be butt naked for just a yukata.”

“I-I’m wearing boxer briefs, actually.” You mumble, already fiddling with the belt of your pants and _fuck,_ what sort of pointless impulsive statement was that? Did you _really_ have to tell him what kind of undergarments you’re wearing? _Really?_ You turn away from him so that the two of you are standing back to back and he’s not able to see the considerable bulge in your underwear in case he peeks. _Stupid embarrassed little man_ , you berate your, uh, _friend_ , as you fumble to remove your long-sleeved shirt.

“Really? Huh. I always took you for a boxer kind of guy.” He says, and when you look back at him he’s got his head turned slightly to the side.

“H-hey!! What the hell, no peeking!!” You scream, but your companion hurriedly snaps his head around before the first word even leaves your lips.

“Sorry. Sorry, no more peeking. If it's any consolation I couldn’t see much with the mask on."

 _It's_ not, but you don't give him the satisfaction of an answer, settling on merely huffing loudly as you struggle to pull your socks off while still standing.

“...nice rump, by the way.” He comments offhandedly, and your neck and shoulders _burn_.

“Oh my god, you’re friggin’ unbelievable. Just give me the robe already.”

“ _Yukata_.” He corrects you, but you turn around and snatch it off his hands from over his shoulder. After you wrap it up around you torso and tell him he can look and help you out, he immediately takes the sash he left on the tabletop and walks towards you.

The silence is a little awkward, his hands deftly adjusting the folds and twisting the knots, until halfway through he places a flat hand on your chest and murmurs, teasingly, “You’re not _actually_ angry at me for peeking, are you mister English?”

A wave of heat overtakes your cheeks and the tip of your ears just by the sound of his voice, low and rumbling and smooth like heavy cream. Darn it! Just when you had already gotten over the previous incident and had returned to your natural skin color! You gulp and pull a face, trying to keep it fucking together, _I mean honestly_.

“Well, not exactly _angry_ , I’d say, but embarrassed?” you explain, trying not to give away how jittery he absolutely makes you all the friggin’ time, but somehow you think he knows it already. "Anyhoo, how would you know?! I ought to be mad at you for it, if not outright pissed! You were awfully rude!"

“Oh, I know embarrassed mad and _mad_ mad when I see it, trust me." He comments, finishing with your outfit with a strong tug on the knot and a couple of taps on your shoulder. "And frankly, there’s absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. I wasn’t being sarcastic or anything, I was completely honest. That is a really nice rump you have. I can probably bounce a coin off of it. Even play bongo drums with it. 'Drum it up. These are the mating drums, to call back the red fox from the far plains.' Someone build this rump a gold statue, because _damn_.”

_Holy mackarel, what?!_

“Y-you are completely missing the point I—“

“Still.” He continues, as if he didn't just make the weirdest love declaration to your fine ass if you ever heard one. His hands grip the collar of the yukata and he looks up at you with the mask's empty black eyes, voice dripping with emotion. “Sorry. You're absolutely right, that was really low of me. I promise it won’t happen again.”

You gulp dryly and nod in affirmation, wanting nothing but to drop the subject as fast as humanly possible. For a while the two of you just stay like that, his body so wonderfully warm you can feel the heat of his torso through the thin satin covering your very own. It's when you realize just exactly _how close_ you two are, and it makes you very...

_very..._

Wow, does this deal of not being able to know how you feel about everything _suck dick_ , goodness gracious!

“ _Uh, w-well_ , y-you’re absolutely forgiven, chap!” You squeak, throwing your arms up and taking a few steps back. The man’s body language screams _startled_ , but all you can do is put your hands on your hips, smiling awkwardly. “Uh, so. Um. Ah, a mirror!” You point to the other side of the room where it is and trot towards it with heavy steps, making an unnecessarily wide circle as to avoid approaching your companion as you walk past him. The whole scene makes you feel ridiculous, like a baby elephant with a wedgie trying to walk over hot coal, but a part of you can’t help it. “Wow, you did a smashing job, mate! Though I’m afraid that the chest hair I’m sporting doesn’t match the whole oriental look we were going for, eh?!”

You laugh loudly and awkwardly, hands on your hips, the sound fake even to your very own ears. The Kitsune lets out a huff of air through his nose, waving his head and crossing his arms disapprovingly.

“You’re real bad at hiding your emotions, English. I can read you like a book.”

“Oh, can you, now?” you say, and he turns around, walking back to his spot on the kotatsu, casually serving the tea from the pot on the cup meant for you. You hesitate, but eventually walk over and sit across from him, taking the cup and leaning over the table to look at him straight on. “Okay. Then tell me, oh wise one. What did you read just now?”

“Well, I could tell you were embarrassed by my proximity, but that one’s a little obvious.” Before you have time to protest he raises his head in a way that feels almost _intimidating_ , and you shut your mouth immediately. “I could tell you were tense, confused, conflicted... flustered...” He leans in towards you, making you wrinkle your brows. You don't think he's absolutely correct, but you allow him to go on nevertheless. “You don't like disappointing people, and you've never flirted with someone of the same sex. It makes you anxious, puzzled. Thus, you don't know how to react when I'm close to you. But when we're just talking, you're outgoing and a nice guy with odd speech mannerisms."

Your face is pretty much impassive, but overall... he's absolutely right, the buster. It annoys you to no end.

"But even so... I can feel that, beneath this whole shyness act you've been showing, you have a lot of potential to be just the opposite. To be demanding without being an ass, possessive without being inconsiderate, and rough without going overboard. The kind of guy who doesn't _know_ how to be sexy, but manages in the end without even trying. And I think it's really... _hot_."

 _Hot?_ Your eyebrows shoot up and your jaw drops open because, _by jolly_ , that was definitely not the word you were expecting! You've never been called anything even akin to “hot” before!

“W-what makes you think that?” you lean a little closer to him over the table, almost hypnotized, and he tilts his head, diminishing the gap between you even more. You just _know_ he knows that you’re focusing on that last word, and you can almost feel him grinning with triumph beneath his mask. "I mean... I never..." You whisper, and the clutch to the cup in your fist tightens.

You wonder if he said it because he's trying to get into your pants. Or get _you_ in _his_ pants? Something like that, probably.

You also wonder if he actually _wants_ to get in your pants or if he’s only trying to because of some silly sense of obligation related to his job. Like you with your friends.

It’s awfully hard to think when there’s such a thick fog in your mind.

“Your arms, for one.” He purrs, reaching over and squeezing your bicep. "And your attitude towards me. You're a gentleman, English, and you treat me as an equal. I could be  
wrong, but I've had my fair share of gentlemen who were everything I could've asked for and _more_.”

You lick your lips, which feels dry and parched, but you can’t bring yourself to take a sip of your tea, afraid to break the moment. The Kitsune’s hand slithers down to cover your own.

“See, Jake," he goes on, very quietly, and you come closer to hear him better, eyes focused on the glint of two pupils beneath thin black felt and the fingers caressing your very own. "Here's a golden tip for any kind of relationship: if you ever want something, all you have to do is... _ask nicely_."

Before you think about what you’re doing, you’re leaning forward, and he’s nuzzling the side of your nose with the cold mask. It feels nice, and you reach out with your free hand, fingers lightly touching the mask’s cheek and tracing back to his nape.

“Can... can I?” You ask, _nicely_ , and somehow you don’t even give a crap anymore that he’s a lad. No one’s ever made you feel this way before. _Ever_.

He chuckles oh so softly, the sound muffled as always from behind his cover, and you imagine a grin stretching across pink lips, freckled cheeks flushing pink, a tongue flicking out in anticipation.

“ _Yes_.” He croons, and you gladly close the gap between the two of you, touching your lips where his very own should be. It’s weird, kissing a flat and cold surface, but then you tilt your head and the snout of the fox mask fits perfectly over your cheek, and you hold the man’s nape with both hands to pull him closer, to press yourself to him, tangling your fingers in his smooth blonde hair.

You want to blame it on  the fact that he complimented you; nobody ever calls you “hot”, or anything of the sort, and when they do it’s because they’re making fun of your body hair, not ever sincerely. In reality though, somewhere deep inside you, you know that’s not _exactly_ it. You know you’ve been anticipating this meeting all week, you know you’ve become very fond of the guy after spending merely six whole hours chatting with him, and you know this is _ridiculous_ , this is like Pretty Woman, cliché and dumb and _impossible_ , but in the moment you can’t find it in yourself to give a damn.

Focusing on anything else is like herding cats, especially when your partner’s thin fingers cup your face so gently is as if you might break, and pull you closer and closer to him.

After what feels like eternity you disconnect your lips from his mask and open your eyes. You can faintly see his pupils dilated over his iris this up close, and not for the first nor the last you wish you could see more. The whole ordeal feels rather... impersonal. You’re not sure if you enjoyed it as much as you wish.

“Why are you doing this?” You ask while scratching his nape with your fingers, and he replies by gently thumbing your cheek.

“Why are _you_?” He asks back, and you glare.

“I asked first. What are your intentions?”

“You seem like a father-in-law after I’ve told him I’m dating their daughter.” He chuckles, but your face remains impassive.

“Stop prancing around. I’m serious here, mate.”

“Oh.” He whispers, untangling himself from you and going back to his spot on the other side of the table, and you let go of him too, settling down and relaxing, the ghost of his touch on your skin making it almost prickle. “What do you mean?”

“I mean... why are you flirting with me? Why are you luring me in, trying to seduce me? Do you actually _like me_ or do you just want me to have intercourse with you so you can fulfill the job you were paid to do?”

He becomes silent then, slowly reaching for his tea cup and holding it between his palms, not actually drinking it. It seems like he hasn’t really thought about it, or maybe even noticed what he’s been doing.

“I don’t know.” He finally replies, rubbing the ceramic under his fingers. “I mean... I do like you, but... not like that. You’re just a client to me, English. Nothing more.”

It’s not that you weren’t expecting it, but it still hits you like a sack of bricks to the noggin.

But honestly, what were you expecting? You _are_ just his client, and nothing else. Just because you two had a lovely time last week just chatting about and talking about the stuff you enjoy, like guns and movies, you don’t even know the chap’s first name. Your relationship is strictly professional, no matter how much you’ve come to tell yourself otherwise during your week away.

“I mean,” the Kitsune continues after several tense minutes of silence, and you look up at him. “You are a _really_ nice guy. I guess I could see us being friends, you know? I just... never thought about it, since I’ll most likely never see you again after these five weeks.”

Oh, yes. You forgot about that tiny detail indeed.

“Yes, of course, how silly of me. Do pardon me, my good pal, it seems to have slipped my mind. I believe I’ve made things quite awkward between us, haven’t I.”

“No, don’t worry about it.” The Kitsune assures you, waving a hand in the air. “I guess I can see where you’re coming from. I came on too heavy. I guess I thought you’d change your mind about my services if I got you comfortable enough, but I shouldn’t have assumed anything. So let’s make a deal here.” He straightens his back, and you do the same, nodding once. “I promise I’ll treat you casually, as a colleague, and will make a move only after, and not a second before, _you_ initiate it. The metaphorical baton is 100% in your hands, and it’s completely your choice if you want to keep it or pass it on to me, whenever and however. Deal?”

You think about it for a bit, but it doesn’t take much for you, because his words feel like someone’s lifting a spectacular weight off your shoulders. You still have your friends to deal with, but blast them all! You’ll think about them later. Right here, right now, it’s you and the Kitsune only, and finally, _finally_ you feel like you can just hang out like the good pals that you not yet are but you’re sure you can be!

Yes, this right here, is your new mission: become good friends with the lad. You grin wickedly, and offer him your open hand.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, buster!” You exclaim, and he reaches out to shake your hand and _golly_ does he have a firm grip on things! You squeeze his hand as hard as he does yours, and he squeezes right back even more, and suddenly you find yourself twisting your face in pain and concentration until simultaneously you two let go with moans of pain and rub your knuckles. You can’t see his face, but the moment you start laughing he does too, loud and beautifully genuine, and with this you declare your mission officially underway.

This will be a jolly good month indeed!

 


	3. Intermission: Dirk and Dave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked me about Dirk and Dave's relationship, so here you have it! They're non-identical twins, and this intermission is so you have a bit more context on some things that will happen on the next chapter :3
> 
> If you guys have any questions about this AU or anything else feel free to ask me either here or on my [Tumblr](http://gobetti.tumblr.com/) and I'll gladly answer!
> 
>  
> 
> \-----

Your parents die when you’re both sixteen.

A mugging gone wrong, the police officer at your doorstep says. At first, you don’t get it; you knew they were taking far too long to return home, but the concept that they never will took longer to get to you than it did Dave. He starts crying, and only then it really hits you, like a sock to the jaw that leaves you numb. You two hold each other’s hands and shiver like the kids you still are, tears unashamedly streaming down your faces. You don’t say anything to the officer, because deep down you know there’s nothing worthwhile to be said.

The funeral is five days later, organized by your mother’s sister, a woman you have zero emotional connection to. You and Dave stay behind long after the guests are gone, staring down at their graves while holding each other’s hands, as if to keep one another from falling, tumbling and crumbling down without being able to ever get up again. Neither of you have said a word to anyone since you got the news. You wonder if you’ll ever actually talk again.

Consequently, you don’t tell any of your friends about their death.

A week later a lawyer comes by at your apartment with your parents’ will. You sit down with him, but he talks technical terms that neither of you understand. He resolves into short and simple words then, explaining that your parents left everything they owned to the two of you.

“Everything” isn’t much though.

It’ll be enough to get you by for the next couple of years, probably.

You think about how things will be from now on, and Dave, most likely thinking just the same, enquires about a college fund that they might’ve left. You’ve completely forgotten about that.

The man shakes his head and sighs, tired.

You hold on to each other and don’t let go.

\--

Your voice eventually returns and so does Dave’s. Your aunt is now your legal guardian, but she leaves for her own house a couple of days after the lawyer’s visit. Thing is, she lives six states away and can’t afford to leave her job to take care of two teenagers she barely even knows, sons of a sister she didn’t care much about. You know the best thing for the three of you is for her to stay at her place with her own family and friends since you and Dave can take care of each other just fine. You tell her that through the phone. She murmurs a shy and slightly guilty “thank you” before hanging up.

You never hear from her again, nor does child protection services ever show up at your doorstep.

When you’re seventeen you get a job at McDonalds to help pay the bills. Meanwhile, Dave studies his ass off because he’s almost failing his last class. You help him whenever you have the time to spare, and he thanks you with relieved sighs and relaxed shoulders. In July the two of you graduate high school and it’s really melancholic, but also awfully painful. You wish your parents were there to be proud of you. You wish someone, _anyone_ was.

After the ceremony, Dave tells John you’ll be meeting your parents somewhere behind the school building. He looks at him, confused, but nods anyway. You see that his dad senses something’s up, but your poker face remains unbreakable, and thus he doesn’t say anything about it. You tell Roxy a similar lie and she doesn’t suspect anything.

When you two reach the thick crowd of proud parents and relatives, you dash through it, throwing your gown and hat to the floor. You reach your apartment quickly and lock yourselves up in your shared bedroom.

You push your mattress towards Dave’s, and you hug him from behind. He sniffs in his pillow and holds your hand against his chest.

You don’t speak to each other or to anyone else for a whole week.

\--

John calls you two in August, telling you about the test that you can take to try and get a huge scholarship at your city’s local college, something akin to 60 or 80% of the yearly tuition if you do _really_ well. You look at each other, worried. You always wanted to go to college, but right now it’s kind of an impossible dream since your parents’ savings are running thin and will probably manage to sustain you two for a few more months only.

You sign the two of you up for the test anyway, and while Dave buries his face in books and formulas, sometimes at home, sometimes at John’s place, you only read a thing here and there in between work, job hunting, and passing out from exhaustion. You’re pretty smart if you may say so yourself; graduated with honors, even. Deep down you know you don’t need to work as hard as Dave does to guarantee yourself at least an acceptable score. Still, you can’t help but study every possible moment you have and worry yourself sick about whether it’ll be enough to make it.

You find The Velvet Door around September.

It’s a strip club, and a really nice one at that. It’s quite hidden on the city’s downtown district, but classy and well known in the local community. Your co-worker works there on the weekends as a waitress and she tells you they are in dire need of a new male dancer. The woman who answers the number you’re given agrees to meet you for an interview.

You shower, shave, put on a nice outfit, and meet her the next morning when the club’s not yet open. Sitting at the club’s bar is a beautiful woman with a high ponytail, her voice smooth and gentle. She asks you to take off your shirt and almost immediately declares you’ll be perfect for the job. She explains all about the anonymity of the place, how all the customers and workers wear masks both so they won’t be recognized inside or outside the club and to provide a different atmosphere from their competitors, and you find yourself more and more enthralled by the idea of working as a dancer.

She tells you that you can learn how to dance with your future coworkers on weeknight shifts, when it’s a lot calmer and there’s not as many patrons. She also casually informs you how much you’ll earn, tips aside, and it feels like breathing again.

Before you realize, you’re both eighteen.

The Velvet Door signs your hiring papers, and you gladly hand in your resignation at McDonald’s. Christmas comes and goes, and you and Dave study every single breathing moment you have. You only start working again in January, so all of your free time is spent surrounded in books, joining John and Dave to help them every now and then. The dreaded test is right after New Year, and Dave and John are so jittery you almost want to slap them both and tell them to chill the fuck out, even if you’re also nervous as fuck.

In the end each of you get 70% scholarship for the college’s tuition, and although John skips on the balls of his feet with happiness, you and Dave sit at home and stare at the numbers you’ve written down.

It’s a lot less if you think about how much it would’ve originally cost you, but it’s still a lot more than you actually have.

You cry silently as Dave bawls his eyes out over the kitchen table, and you hold him close until he calms down and passes out in your arms.

With your new job, though, you think you can work this out.

Or at least you hope so.

\--

You work eight hours a day, seven days a week, holidays and all, and you don’t tell Dave. He knows you quit the fast food gig and have a new job, but he never asked where and didn’t push the subject either. By the end of the month, when you and Dave are moving out of the rental apartment your parents left behind to the tiny campus dorm right before the beginning of the semester, you pay the moving van in cash, even tipping the delivery men quite generously so they do a good job. Dave raises an eyebrow at you and you think he suspects where that money came from, but neither of you say anything.

By February, as expected, the last penny of your parents’ meager savings is used up on second hand school supplies and Dave stares at how much you two spent and how much you two will still need to disburse with a deep frown.

You tell Dave to chill, that you have everything under control, and he looks at you with so much concern in his eyes that it tugs at your heartstrings.

You think that’s what worries him the most.

You keep working all week long, tiring yourself to the bone. Every day you leave the campus at eight pm for work, and stay until five am sharp The job is fun though; you have really nice coworkers and and bosses, and the crowd that attends the club isn’t skeevy. Most of them come wearing suits and dress pants, but even the dudes with casual outfits and one too many beers in their bellies know their limits. You weren’t expecting it, but you end up becoming really good at your new job, and you love it more and more with each passing day.

By the end of May you’ve saved up enough cash to afford working only half time during the week and full time on weekends, so you have some extra time to study and keep up with your homework. The patrons’ tips are amazing on the weekends and can easily get you both through most months.

Dave stares at the bills piled up at the end of the month on your desk - all paid and accounted for - and by the look on his face you think he suspects what kind of business you work for, but you tell him to focus on his studies and forget about it.

He always looks at you with this sad look on his eyes now, even though you enjoy your job a lot. It’s fun, it keeps you fit, everyone you work with is amazing, and most important of all, the pay is great.

But you can’t help but think he’ll make a fuss out of it if you tell, so you stay quiet, and Dave does too.

\--

Once classes begin, John comes more often than not to your door room, and slowly the cogs in his head start working. You see that he notices how you two rarely ever mention your parents, and when you do, Dave gets really quiet and moody. He thinks he’s doing a good job of keeping his poker face in place, but John is his best friend. He’s known him since forever, and almost like you, the blue-eyed boy can see right through him.

The cat is out of the bag the day John’s dad tries calling your parents and finds out your old phone line has been deactivated. When he confronts Dave, he ends up confessing.

He earns himself a loud and heavy punch on the nose.

Three months later, after a lot of arguing and shouting and sulking between the two friends, Dave finally breaks and begs John for his forgiveness. John apologizes as well for nearly breaking Dave’s nose that night, that night that feels like so long ago, and they hold each other and cry.

That same day the owner of The Velvet Door tells you they have plans to make a restricted and  exclusive members-only prostitution back door. She asks you if you’d like to do it, and how the anonymous factor will still be upheld. She further explains how the men and women that decide to buy your services will have to go through a series of background checks, health tests, several interviews, and other complicated shit just to make sure they’re not creepy rapists, only rich patrons who have enough cash to spend on small luxuries every once in a while.

You honestly don’t know what to do.

Stripping is fine, but more than that? You don’t know if you can.

You go home and you don’t sleep.

\--

You take the job.

You’ll start next year, a little after your twentieth birthday, after they finish building the rooms and you’ve had time to learn the character you’ll be playing and get used to the idea. You’ll also get a fat raise and fridays off on the weekends you’re scheduled to meet with a patron.

Dave finally confronts you when he sees you worried for so many days straight. You tell him what you do for a living and what else you’ll start doing in a few months, and he frowns.

You don’t want his pity though. You chose this for yourself and if you’re honest, you _really_ like it; you enjoy the attention, the compliments, the sweet loot the patrons give you every night in exchange for a sway of your hips. You love how every eye in the room is meant for you and you only, and how the compliments are raw and sincere and _god_ they make you feel good about yourself. You’d probably hate it if they could see you, if they could hear your voice and see your face and know who you are. You wouldn’t feel safe; you’d feel humiliated even. But they can’t and they don’t actually want to. The fact that you’re faceless only adds to the thrill of the game.

But you don’t know how things will be once you start prostituting yourself. To be honest, you’re scared, but you also know you and Dave _need_ this money if you want to go somewhere in life, if you want to be able to buy new clothes and decent meals instead of using up everything you earn in tuition and school books and bills. You know it’s safe though, so there’s that.

You say all of that to Dave, remaining calm and composed while doing so, but you leave out the scared part because he doesn’t need to know that - or anyone else for that matter.

Though to be honest, you think he knows it already. He can read you like a book in the exact the same way you can see right through his forced stoicism.

He’s breathing heavily, face flushed and fists balled out. He’s pissed off and frustrated not only with you but also _himself_ for not being able to do a damn thing about the situation you’ve found yourselves in. You put your hands on his shoulders and look him in the eye.

“I’m okay.” You tell him, and he immediately lunges forward and hugs you.

You want to tell him you’re too old for this shit. Too old for hugs and holding hands and tears. Still, you hug him back, squeeze as tightly as humanly possible until he’s wheezing for air, until you’ve squeezed the tears out of him.

Until he’s squeezed the tears out of you, too.

“I’ll be okay, lil’ bro.” You say, rubbing his back as he clings to you for dear life. “I’ll be alright. You know I will.”

“Fuck you.” He mutters against your neck, sniffing loudly and hiccuping.

You don’t say anything in return. You know he doesn’t expect you to.

So you hold him tight and hope to god you’ll manage through all this, pray things will get better someday. That you won’t regret your decision, when the time comes.

Because that’s basically all you can do.

 


End file.
